


Flesh & Blood

by Airheart



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Based on a Tumblr Post, Pre-Canon, Scarification
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-26
Updated: 2013-11-26
Packaged: 2018-01-02 18:15:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1059973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Airheart/pseuds/Airheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malekith undergoes a warrior's rite of passage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flesh & Blood

**Author's Note:**

> this is set waaaaaay back, like when the light first came round. special thanks to aorticinkwell on tumblr and her absolutely FASCINATING scarification headcanon. i just love that. also a bit more headcanon here; algrim is chronologically older than malekith, but no one alive knows it.  
> i cried twice trying to write this

* * *

Malekith sat motionless on the edge of the bath. Part of his breastplate was dented inward, and he could not take in a full breath for the pain it brought. He felt so constricted by his armor, but it hurt to move so he simply sat there without removing so much as a glove. A few strands of hair had come loose during the battle, and the humidity in the bathhouse made them stick to his temples.

They had won the battle. The Asgardians would not dare to set foot in Svartalfheim for a long time afterward, and the elves would spend days celebrating their victory. Malekith could hear them shouting and singing outside, and he longed to join them—as a boy, he had watched the festivities from his mother’s side and waited for the day that he could celebrate with them. He was old enough now, and he was fortunate in that his first battle had ended in Svartalfar triumph, but as tradition dictated… He nearly sighed, but caught himself before he inhaled too deeply. Instead, he took shallow breaths, and soon he was feeling light-headed. He closed his eyes and dug his fingers into the stone beneath him.

“Are you ready?”

Malekith exhaled and coughed, then opened his eyes. Algrim was standing in the doorway of the washroom, holding an intricately carved stone box. He raised it slightly as though he were offering it to Malekith.

“You are still wearing your armor,” he said in a tone that was almost inquisitive, perhaps even confused. Malekith nodded, but even that hurt and he involuntarily inhaled sharply. He grimaced as pain shot through his chest again.

“I am,” he hissed through clenched teeth. There was the sharp clink of stone on stone as Algrim set the box down, and a moment later he was kneeling in front of Malekith, unfastening his breastplate. The dark-skinned warrior moved quickly and methodically, removing Malekith’s battered armor piece by piece until he wore only his dark bodysuit. It was ripped in some places, cut by a well-placed Asgardian blade, and the skin underneath was stained with blood.

“You will have a fine start,” Algrim said. He reached up and started undoing the miniscule clasps along Malekith’s shoulders. “Most warriors only begin with small cuts, unsuitable for carving. But you—” He peeled the fabric away, exposing the prince’s white skin bit by bit— “you are fortunate.”

“Is that what you call it?” Malekith asked. He heard the bitterness in his own voice, and immediately regretted speaking. Algrim paused for a moment. “I did not mean—I understand that—” He sighed.

“You needn’t explain yourself.” Algrim pulled the bodysuit down to Malekith’s waist, then sat back and examined his wounds. “I dreaded my first scarification too. But it—”

“Do not preach to me about the significance of this,” Malekith said sharply. “I am not a child.” Algrim inclined his head slightly and murmured an apology before gesturing to the bath.

“Please,” he said. “After you, Highness.”

Malekith pulled off the rest of his bodysuit, grimacing as pain coursed through his limbs and torso with every movement. Bruises had already formed, turning his skin gray and black and no doubt adding to his battered appearance. He did not look forward to getting up in the morning.

He bit his tongue so as to keep from cursing aloud as he slid slowly into the bath. The mineral-saturated water was as hot as an elf could bear—near boiling, as it were. It stung at his cuts and made his skin prickle with pain, but its cleansing properties were invaluable and he did not falter. The water around him was soon tinged black with blood. Malekith did not realize that he had been holding his breath until he was chest-deep in the water, and he let it out in a hiss and closed his eyes.

“You fought well today,” Algrim said, and Malekith heard the scrape of the box’s stone lid as it was removed and set aside.

“I have been training for a very long time.”

“Was it as you expected it to be?”

Malekith did not respond, and Algrim chuckled softly. “It never is,” he said. “Now, my prince, are you ready?”

“As I will ever be,” Malekith said with a sigh. He stayed submerged in the water for a moment longer, then opened his eyes and grasped Algrim’s outstretched hand. The knife, carved from a white stone that formed on the edge of the cliffs by the sea, glimmered in Algrim’s other hand, reflecting the wretched moonlight and creating dancing patterns on the wall. Its edge was straight and smooth, and so sharp that it could cut through flesh as easily as clay. That blade had scarred many an elf, including Malekith’s mother and her father and her father’s father and every monarch before them, marking them as fierce warriors and protectors. The sight of it filled Malekith with excitement and dread.

He sat on a plain stool carved from dull, coarse peasant stone, and Algrim knelt in front of him, studying the numerous cuts and occasionally wiping away a bit of blood that seeped out of the wounds. With gentle hands, he traced invisible lines from the gashes, carefully mapping out the patterns that would adorn Malekith’s body for eternity. Malekith almost leaned into his touch, yearning for the warmth and comfort it would bring, but his movement would undoubtedly disrupt Algrim’s concentration and he did not want that. So he stayed as still as a statue and thought of how proud his mother would be when she saw the scars, and how the other warriors would envy the beautiful designs.

Without a word, Algrim reached up and gripped Malekith’s chin firmly with one hand, and, before the prince could react, sliced into his cheek with the stone knife. Malekith swore out of shock more than anything—the cut was relatively shallow and the pain minor, but he had not expected Algrim to move so quickly nor so suddenly. He put his hand to his face, feeling his cheek gingerly. Algrim wiped a few drops of blood off of the blade.

“Are you still so nervous?” he asked. Malekith stared at him for a moment, and slowly he realized that he did not feel as stiff and tense as he had before. The dread that had weighed so heavily on him only moments ago was all but gone. Algrim gave him the smallest of knowing smiles. “My brother employed the same trick on me, after my first battle. He never explained it to me.” He carefully cut a matching line into Malekith’s other cheek and wiped away a bit of blood that welled up in the corner. As per tradition, Malekith did not speak, but he tried to convey his gratitude with a simple look, and Algrim inclined his head. “I only wish to make you comfortable, my prince. Brace yourself.”

Then he placed the tip of the knife at the edge of a long gash on Malekith’s shoulder, slowly pressing it into the cut, gauging its depth so that he may match it as he carved. The pain was immediate, and Malekith bit his tongue again to keep from making a sound. He could feel his skin split as Algrim cut, and soon blood began to trickle from the wound, hot and wet against his bruised skin. Malekith closed his eyes.

The blade rarely left his skin. Algrim would occasionally lift it and move to another section of skin, but the pain was constant and agonizing, and soon blood dripped off of the tips of Malekith’s fingers. At some point, he found himself thinking that he was glad that he was not allowed to speak—he feared that he would vomit if he opened his mouth at all. Bitter-tasting bile rose in his throat, adding its acidic burn the myriad of pains racking his body. It hurt less to partake in war.

After what seemed like a lifetime but really could not have been much more than an hour, Algrim laid down the knife and gently wiped the blood from Malekith’s skin with a damp cloth.

“There,” he said. “Now none can deny that you are strong, and worthy of your title.” Malekith heard the stone box clink again, and he sighed.

He definitely did not enjoy the prospect of getting up in the morning.


End file.
